Sketches
by Diluted Thoughts
Summary: Full Title: Sketches - In Which Mikami Teru Finds Himself A God Who Falls Asleep On The Job // Ten drabbles focusing on Mikami Teru and his eccentricities in devotion, psychosis, and neurosis. Set at various points in the series.


**Title**: Sketches (In Which Mikami Teru Finds Himself A God Who Falls Asleep On The Job)  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Pairings/Characters**: Mikami (recurring); Ms. Mikami; Watari, a reference to L; Gevanni; Light (twice), Yuri; Namikawa, a reference to Higuchi; Naomi; Sachiko, and Sayu; some hints at Gevanni/Mikami; Namikawa/Mikami → Higuchi; Mikami/Naomi; and Mikami/Delete Key. (No, really.)  
**Warnings**: Some language, sexual content, themes and imagery. Nothing heavy.**  
Word Count**: 10 × 100**  
Author's Note**: The only recurrent theme between all of these drabbles is that Mikami is present; they are not in chronological order, and are from various points in the series.

* * *

**Key Fixation**

It was _imperfect_.

It was his fault that the text on the key—his blissful, glorious, sacred key—had faded, rendering the word almost impossible to read. His slender hand flitted over his keyboard in a panic. It needed to be fixed. This key brought him one step closer to aiding in the eradication of all that was unholy in the world. He brought a pale forefinger across it, gently, reverently. The key glistened with such urgency that a low, hoarse gasp formed at the back of his throat. With an unsteady grip, he wrote down a single reminder:

_Delete_.

* * *

**Birthday Wishes**

"Happy Birthday, Teru."

Her son wiped his nose with a tissue and disposed of it in the trash can. (He never used his tissues more than once, and this was her pet peeve; but she wouldn't bring it up today—not on his _birthday_.) He peered at the cupcake she had placed on his nightstand. (She didn't tell him that it was a leftover from work, because what sort of mother was unable to bake her child a decent birthday cake?)

"Thank you, mother. Did you make it yourself?"

She shifted guiltily. "No, honey."

Teru promptly began nibbling on it.

* * *

**Customer Satisfaction**

It was not his job as a cashier to question customers on what they were buying; Mikami had seen his fair share of eccentricities—a teenage boy purchasing a girl's magazine, a man surreptitiously paying for sanitary napkins, and a college student buying strawberry-and-vanilla flavored condoms (Mikami had no idea those flavors even _existed_)—but he felt the need to interject here because this was devastatingly unhealthy.

"These sugar cubes are not just for eating, I assure you," Mikami was told matter-of-factly, "My protégé enjoys building with them."

Mikami proceeded to bag the groceries, and bid the spectacled man a good day.

* * *

**Divine Intervention**

He had his nose buried into the newspaper (he had gotten it for free—one of the perks of working at the grocery store), carefully rereading each paragraph twice in case he missed something. It was like this _Kira_—this sanctifying advocate of all that was just and fair and _true_—knew what he prayed for, what he wished for in the depths of his heart. He had gone from believing it was pure coincidence to labeling Kira as a renegade angel from Heaven; but now Mikami knew that Kira was much more than that.

To Mikami Teru, the killings were divine intervention.

* * *

**Questionable Circumstances**

At age twelve, Mikami Teru decided he was never going to have sex.

He had never given the topic much thought in the first place—he remembered how horrified he had been to learn _how_ babies came into the world (he had went home that day and demanded to know if his mother had had a Caesarean Section)—but now he had no choice. The process, he thought, was too messy. What if something didn't fit right?_ What if he got stuck? _

Now, at age twenty-seven, as he caught the eye of a blue-eyed man across the subway, Mikami wasn't so sure.

* * *

**Ignis Fatuus**

When Yuri began relaying the tragic story of how her brother had shoved her favorite teddy bear down the toilet when she was five, Light deftly tuned out to scan the headings of a nearby newspaper stand instead. A headline paraded across the title page—**KIRA: HOMICIDAL MEGALOMANIAC OR JUSTICE INCARNATE? YOU BE THE JUDGE**.

He smiled inwardly, watched as a fair-skinned student with glasses frames that matched the color of his dark hair leaned in to read the article more closely. "Kami," he muttered, and Light had to tune back into the story just to keep from laughing with delight.

* * *

**Diplomatic Endeavors**

Namikawa Reiji was not pleased that _he_ was the one meeting the attorney, but Yotsuba had agreed that he was the most suitable in the diplomatic sense. (Higuchi had volunteered, but giving _that_ dumbfuck a chance was a death wish.)

"Who is that?" Namikawa asked, gesturing to the figure behind the copy machine.

"Mikami Teru. My intern."

The intern looked up, and Namikawa smiled at him invitingly, only to be met with an icy glare in return. He took the blow with surprising grace and mentally told this Mikami Teru that he was lucky Higuchi Kyosuke had not come instead.

* * *

**Transportation Woes**

Mikami Teru did not like public transportation.

It was a filthy haven where pathogens thrived and allergens abounded. If he had the money, he would have bought himself a vehicle—something modest but efficient—but he was barely affording law school. He wrinkled his nose; a boy was shaking the cat hair off his jacket, and it was driving his sinuses crazy. He sneezed just as the train jerked to a precarious stop and collided with the leather-clad woman next to him.

He murmured an apology, she offered him a tissue, and Mikami decided that perhaps public transportation wasn't all that bad.

* * *

**Chance Encounter**

There were two others in the terminal—a mother and daughter, by the looks of it. The mother looked anxious (her eyes were red and swollen) while the daughter (seated in a wheelchair like a lifeless doll) stared at him blankly. Mikami shifted in his seat, looked down at his briefcase.

Someone arrived and asked the pair if they were ready to go—the son, Mikami guessed, by the way he swiftly took hold of the wheelchair, murmuring to the doll and the doll's mother.

Mikami caught his intense gaze for a fraction of a second before the trio departed in silence.

* * *

**The Fear**

His worst fear had always been Tuberculosis.

_Just wash your hands_, his mother used to tell him. But what the fuck did she know?—how did that apply now, as he sat in solitary confinement, with blood trickling down the sides of his mouth? The warm, coppery fluid burned his throat as he coughed up another mouthful, his forehead beaded with sweat, his eyes stinging with tears. His mind was telling him that this was an illusion, but how could coughing up _blood_ be an illusion?

Mikami Teru screamed and felt his vocal cords shred to bloody pieces with the effort.


End file.
